The King's Drabbles
by Dickensian812
Summary: A series of drabbles based on "The King's Speech."
1. How to Handle a Woman

This is the first of a series of drabbles (and double drabbles, and maybe triple drabbles!) that I'm writing based on _The King's Speech_. Disclaimer: Not my characters.

How to Handle a Woman

(The title is from a song in the musical _Camelot_. I thought it was fitting.)

Descending the stairs outside the Logue flat, Bertie winced as a woman's scolding voice reached him. He had not supposed that gentle-looking Mrs. Logue could attain such volume.

"P . . . poor old Logue," he said with sympathy. "I'm afraid he's for it."

"Serve him right," said Elizabeth primly, three steps below. "He shouldn't keep secrets from her."

"But _we_ asked him to keep them!" Bertie pointed out.

"It doesn't matter _who_ asked him," Elizabeth retorted. "Husbands shouldn't keep things from their wives."

She marched downstairs, while the king of England trailed after her, pondering the incomprehensibility of women.


	2. Betrayed

Betrayed

"_Nobody wants that . . . I least of all."_

The words hung in the air as David turned away with an air of finality, pretending to busy himself with papers. Bertie stood rooted to the spot, questions crowding into his throat: _How could you do this to your country? To your people? To your family?_

At long last, he choked out just one word: "When?"

"Very soon, I believe." David's glance flickered up, then rested on him with a studied expression of surprise and brotherly concern. "Oh now, Bertie, don't look so shellshocked. I'm sure you'll do just fine." With a nonchalant little pat on his brother's arm, as one would give to a nervous child facing a school examination, he went back to puttering about with his papers.

Bertie was silent. It was not just his old disability that restrained him. It was the feeling that if he opened his lips to speak, or took one step, or moved even a finger so much as a fraction of an inch, he would be violently ill all over the floor.

Only his eyes spoke now, and in them was his real question.

_How could you do this to me?_


	3. Two Sessions

Two Sessions

". . . Who p . . . pulled her out? Little Tommy Stout."

"Very good, Bertie. Now I want you to say it again—and this time, roll across the floor while you say it."

"You're m . . . mad."

"Possible, but irrelevant. On the floor."

"I'm not going to roll about the floor like a bloody dog!"

(Two minutes later)

"DinG DOng bELL, pusSY'S in thE WEll , whO PUt heR IN . . ."

* * *

"Thank you, Your Royal Highness." Logue ushered Elizabeth out with a degree of courtesy Bertie was unused to seeing in him. "We'll be done shortly."

The duchess favored him with a nod and a smile. "I'll be waiting."

Bertie was standing in the middle of the floor, still a bit winded from her sitting on his stomach. "Why d . . . does my wife get to be a 'Royal Highness' and I don't?" he asked curiously.

Logue shrugged as he closed the door. "She's not my patient."

Bertie attempted to picture his wife taking orders from Lionel Logue. A corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Lucky for you," he remarked, just as Logue added feelingly, "And a good thing for me."


	4. Lifeline

Lifeline

"Are you _sure_ you're feeling better?"

"Of course I am, silly man." Her voice is still hoarser than he likes, but there's a chuckle in it. "Who would know if I didn't?"

Bertie can't answer for a minute. She sounds so much like herself again, great waves of relief are crashing over him. "I . . . I'm so glad." Paltry words, but all he can get out.

"The question is, how are you?"

A pause. He thinks of the dinner ahead of him. No Elizabeth to smile soothingly at him across the table, to smoothly turn the conversation away from him whenever she senses him struggling, to turn the whole ordeal into a joke afterwards. Without her, his family gatherings are like drowning in a sea of harsh lights, and voices, and faces.

"I am . . . about as you'd expect."

"I'm sorry, darling." The warmth in her voice reaches through the telephone, feels like a hand caressing his cheek. "I wish I were with you."

He's gripping the receiver like a lifeline. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, my dearest. But I'll see you soon."

Bertie closes his eyes. "Yes. I'll see you soon." _Thank God._


	5. On the Telephone

On the Telephone

(Set shortly after the meeting at the Logues' flat.)

"Hello, is that Lionel Logue?"

"Yes, it is."

"Dr. Logue, please hold for His Majesty King George VI."

"Logue? Bertie here."

"Ah yes, Bertie, how are you?"

"P . . . pretty well, thanks. I was wondering if we could schedule some extra sessions before the c . . . coronation."

"Certainly, I can manage that."

"And I thought p . . . perhaps, while we're at it, we could talk some more about not being afraid of things. You know, lately I've been feeling this strange terror every time I hear my wife walk into—"

"Oh, shut up."


	6. Of Curtsies and Hugs

Of Curtsies and Hugs

One night, when it was the girls' bedtime, Bertie excused himself from the commotion that seemed to be forever going on around him now, and slipped upstairs. He had scarcely seen his daughters since the day of the Accession Council, and something was weighing on him.

He went into Lilibet's room just as the nanny was putting out the light, and quietly motioned her out. In the darkness, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Papa?" asked a drowsy voice from the pillow.

Bertie reached to brush the soft hair back from Lilibet's face. "Just come up to say good night," he whispered. "Are you and the ponies ready for the move?"

"I think so." He caught the note of reserve in her voice.

"Lilibet, I want to t . . talk to you about something," he said abruptly. "When we're in private, just the family—you needn't curtsy." He flinched a little at the memory. "In fact, I'd rather you didn't," he added, in a lower tone.

"But Grandfather liked us to," the child said, dubiously.

"Yes . . . I know."

"So isn't it right?"

Bertie continued to stroke her hair as he thought. The last thing he wanted to do was confuse his conscientious little daughter.

"You see, Lilibet," he finally said, "there are two kinds of kings."

"_Two_ kinds?" Lilibet asked wonderingly.

"Yes. One kind prefers curtsies. . . ."

"And the other kind?"

Bertie slid an arm under her shoulders and raised her up so he could gather her to him. "And the other kind," he murmured in her ear, "prefers hugs."

He felt her arms go around him and hold on tight. "Papa . . ."

"Yes, darling?"

"I'm glad you're the other kind."

Bertie smiled in the dark. "So am I."


	7. Silence

Silence

Elizabeth sat upright in her chair, holding a hand of each of her children. A silence had settled over the room. It was a silence she knew well—the silence of a group of people waiting for her husband to speak.

She had seen the doubt behind the polite smiles as she'd walked behind Bertie to the broadcast booth, a few minutes ago. Most of these people had worked with the king before, liked him, respected him. And had very little faith that he could get through this speech.

_You don't know_, she'd been thinking, as she graciously greeted the assorted dignitaries and technicians. _You have no idea. All those lessons, all those hours and hours of practice, until he was hoarse. You don't know how hard he's worked, how determined he is. He can do this._

Now she sat holding her breath, wondering whether she would even be able to hear Bertie's voice over her pounding heart, if he started. _When_ he started. She felt the unease in the silence around her. _Stop it_, her mind ordered. _Don't you dare doubt him, any of you. He's ready._ _It will be different this time._

_It _will _be._

_It has to._


	8. What Margaret Knew

What Margaret Knew

Margaret knew what she wanted the instant Papa appeared in the doorway. "Now Papa tell a story!" she called out.

"Can't I be a penguin instead?" Papa asked. He dropped to his knees and waddled into the room, looking very much indeed like a penguin in his tuxedo. Both girls giggled, but Margaret would not be distracted.

"No, I want a penguin _story_," she insisted.

She watched with satisfaction as Papa glanced at Mama, then seated himself on the nearest chair. Lilibet would probably scold her later for bothering Papa, but Margaret didn't care. She knew she wasn't being a bother, whatever anyone said.

Of course Papa didn't like to speak for very long if he could help it; everyone knew that. Margaret had known it since she was a very little girl. But she knew other things too. She knew that Papa always thought up the loveliest and funniest stories. She knew that if you looked carefully, you could see a twinkle far down deep in his eyes when he told one. She knew there would be hugs and kisses when it was done.

Margaret knew that Papa really loved to tell stories. He just didn't know it himself.


	9. Her Majesty

Her Majesty

The queen mother had been invited to sit with the rest of the family at the king's first wartime speech. She had turned down the invitation. It had not escaped her notice that, even with his father gone, her son was still nervous in her presence.

However she felt about that, she kept it to herself, as usual.

Very rarely had she interfered with her husband's treatment of Bertie. He was the boy's father, and a ruler preparing all his children to play important roles in life, and he must know best. Now Bertie was king, and by the same token, she would not allow herself to distract or influence him in any way. He would have enough on his mind on this day; she could spare him the added burden.

So she sat alone, listening to his voice on the radio. At first, it was the hesitant voice she was used to hearing. Then it started to become stronger, steadier, more confident. Its growing power was reflected in the unaccustomed emotions dawning on his mother's face: surprise, and wonder, and then, gradually, a fierce pride.

She was conscious of only one thought: She wished his father could hear him.


	10. Shadow

Shadow

(Set after the family dinner, early in the film, where David insisted that Wallis be included.)

In the car, Elizabeth gave Bertie a significant look.

"He _can't_ be serious," Bertie repeated, weakly.

"Darling, I'm afraid he might be."

"But he can't! He w . . . wouldn't. Elizabeth, I _know_ him. He wouldn't be _that_ reckless."

She laid her hand on his. "Perhaps you're right."

Bertie squeezed her hand and stared out the window, trying to believe his own words. He felt the presence of something like a shadow, very near him. He could not have named it, but it was there, dark and cold, and it stayed close as the car rushed into the night.


	11. Promise

Promise

Elizabeth finds Bertie standing by the window in his study, silhouetted against the rainy twilight, and struggling with an obstinate lighter. She feels the tremor in his hands as she takes it from him, speaking low and soothingly, as she would to one of her children.

"Promise . . ." he says quietly. "Promise me, no more."

Elizabeth looks deep into his eyes, then away, feeling his humiliation and hurt as though they were her own. But she says nothing.

To make that promise would be to give up on him. And they both know she will never do that.


	12. Easy

Easy

The king leaned back and folded his hands, having delivered another perfect radio address in his mellifluous voice.

"Easy when you know how."

Bertie stood rigid behind his father's chair, trying not to let his face show that the shaft had gone home. He knew it had been directed at him. Too many such comments had been casually flung in his direction, over the years, for there to be any doubt.

_Easy_, he thought bleakly. _Dear God. Easy._

The words still burned in his mind as he stepped aside to let the photographer take his father's picture. How could he ever explain what it was like to _know_ what he wanted to say, and open his mouth, and not be able to say it? There were days when he felt eaten alive with envy of people around him—days when, God help him, he envied even his own wife and children—for doing so effortlessly what he could never do.

"Have a go yourself." The king's voice was still casual, but with an unmistakable undertone of command. Head bowed, Bertie came back obediently to the desk.

He could not defend himself or beg off. He did not have the words.


	13. Made Glorious Summer by This Sun of York

Made Glorious Summer by This Sun of York

(Inspired by a Shakespearean prompt at day_by_drabble. Thanks to Haiza Tyri for feedback and help.)

"So . . . an actor," Bertie mused aloud. He and Logue were walking back towards the entrance of Westminster Abbey, having finished rehearsing for the coronation.

"Of a sort," Logue acknowledged.

"What sort?"

Logue hesitated. "The failed sort, mostly," he said, at length.

Bertie grimaced, remembering who had used the word first. "I'm s . . . sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No," Logue interrupted. "You were right. Whoever made that inquiry—he got his facts straight."

"I find that hard to believe. I've never known a man s . . . so steeped in Shakespeare."

"Ah, well, loving the words doesn't mean one can perform them adequately," Logue replied, a touch ruefully. "It took me some time to learn that. Even now, I'm not altogether sure that I have."

They walked on in silence for a moment, before he began to quote softly, as if to himself, "'Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, and loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.'"

Bertie glanced sideways at him. "As bad as that?"

Logue suddenly smiled, his old cheerful air reappearing like a ray of light breaking through a cloud. "No. Not bad at all, really. I have a job that I find quite satisfying. I still get to work with the language that I love. Just in a different way than I expected."

"'My crown is called content: A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy,'" Bertie murmured.

He realized that the other man had stopped walking, and looked up to see Logue staring at him with equal parts astonishment and pleasure.

Bertie broke into a grin and clapped his teacher on the shoulder. "My friend, anyone who could get _me_ quoting Shakespeare has had a career he can be proud of."


	14. Looking the Part

Looking the Part

(Note: When I found out that Kate's tiara at the royal wedding was the tiara that Bertie gave to Elizabeth, I just had to do a drabble—or double drabble, as it turned out—about it. :-) A little research plus a little imagination led to this. It's set three weeks before Edward VIII's abdication.)

The tiara had been a gift from Bertie, some time ago, but she had never worn it. The sweet gesture was like him. But diamonds and ornate scrolls were not like her.

So Elizabeth mused as she sat before her mirror, balancing its slight but solid weight on her palms. It wasn't that she didn't like it. But—it was a tiara. And the Duchess of York was not a tiara sort of person. Her style was conservative, modest, sensible. As Mrs. Simpson delighted in reminding everyone these days.

Elizabeth's lips tightened as she stared at the sparkling, alluring thing she held in her hands.

Then, quickly, she lifted it and settled it on the smooth dark waves of her hair.

Chin up, she gazed at the unaccustomed image in the mirror, ignoring her own uncertainty. Perhaps it was not like her, but it conveyed what she wanted to convey. Even though to whom, exactly, she wanted to convey it—to the public? The family? Mrs. Simpson? The king himself?—was not quite clear to her, even now.

Until she went downstairs, finally ready to go out with her husband, and saw his tired eyes brighten at sight of her.


	15. Articulate

Articulate

_You're the disappointing son of a brewer . . . jumped-up jackaroo from the outback . . . you're nobody. . . ._

The words tore themselves from some dark place deep within Bertie, spewing their poison into the clear, cold air. He strode on, though he heard Logue's walk faltering and then stopping, though he could sense the other man's hurt through the growing distance between them. Still he went on, tasting the bitterness of the irony that began, relentlessly, to force itself upon him: that the one time he had actually needed his defect, it had failed him.


	16. Trapped

Trapped

"Forty seconds, sir."

The door to the little room squeaked shut, leaving him with just the microphone and Logue, in the dimness and the silence. Silence that even their few quiet words to each other could not lift. Silence that, in a few seconds, he would have to fill.

Millions outside, waiting, listening.

At the back of his whirling mind, a memory stirred. Another dimly lit place—a stair landing. His brother's voice: _"Now I'm trapped." _His brother, now safely away from all this.

Bertie drew a breath.

_David_, he thought wildly, _you don't know the meaning of the word._


End file.
